


Alone Again Or

by RooBadley



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, One Shot, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Post-Book 1: Carry On, Sad, but also sweet?, but mostly sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 10:41:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29948757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RooBadley/pseuds/RooBadley
Summary: The Mage is dead (long may he rot), so why is Simon Snow walking around like he's the ghost? It's only been a few days, and Simon is being put on house arrest at the Bunce's before the trial over the Mage's death. Baz is there to help him get settled, because Baz has been there by his side since it happened. Inseparable. But now it's time to separate. What happens when it's time for Baz to say goodbye and travel back to Watford? What happens when Baz gets back to their room in Mummer's Tower?Rated T for Totally Sad.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 14
Kudos: 46





	Alone Again Or

**Author's Note:**

> It must have been deeply traumatic for Baz to be alone in Mummer's tower that first night he restarted at Watford after the Mage's death. Surrounded by all the memories of Simon, and his having recently survived a kidnapping. Being there. In the dark. Alone. 
> 
> TW: Brief mention of a panic attack that never reaches full panic stage.
> 
> Fic title from the song Alone Again Or by Love (covered beautifully by The Damned, Calexico, Vitamin String Quartet)

“Speak soon, yeah?” I squeeze Simon’s hand. He doesn’t squeeze back. I can’t leave him like this.

It’s Sunday night. I’ve been at the Bunce’s all day helping Simon get settled. They’ve set up a temporary bedroom for Simon up in the attic, in Martin Bunce’s old lab, surrounded by the detritus of Simon’s magickal life. Maps of the dead spots, lists of magic-less postcodes, the latitude and longitude of his legacy spread out on the walls around him, a constant brutal reminder of everything he’s lost. I’d argued with Penny about it, about why he couldn’t sleep in her room, or with the boys in theirs. This seems needlessly cruel. So much of Simon’s life has been.

He’ll be staying here through the trial, on house arrest. I was livid over that: the house arrest. Fuming. But apparently it’s the best my father and Mitali Bunce could arrange. The Coven still don’t entirely believe our story, I’m not even sure our parents do, and they want to monitor Simon just in case his magic comes back and he decides to—I don’t know, take over the Coven by force? Honestly, I don’t know what the fuck they’re thinking. Look at him. He can barely hold up his own body.

It’s dark out, and late. I’m supposed to drive back to Watford tonight, but I don’t want to leave him. _I don’t want to leave._

I squeeze his hand again, and he doesn’t respond. He’s barely holding on. And I mean that in every possible way.

I let the grip of my fingers loosen and that’s all it takes to startle him back to reality. He squeezes my hand with a forcefulness that might have snapped bones on a regular person.

“Baz,” he says. Just Baz. Just my name. Nothing more.

“Yes, love?”

He takes a sudden shuddering breath. A week ago I was the thing making him take shuddering breaths, in a burning forest, in front of a raging fire.

Now? Now he can barely breathe without sighing. And everything’s gone cold.

“I could stay, Simon. I could get up early tomorrow morning and drive back in time for classes,” I offer. I’d do it, too. Every bloody night. I’d drive out here and sleep at the foot of his bed, if he’d let me. I'd curl up on the floor. I’d get up hours early and drive back each morning. I would exhaust myself for him, to have him, to be with him, to be of some comfort to him. He deserves some comfort. It’s the absolute bare minimum of what he deserves.

“No,” he says quietly. “No, you need to go back. You have to go back.”

We talked about me _not_ going back, of course, just like Bunce and Snow aren't going back. We talked about all three of us dropping out of 8th year. He wouldn’t let me. It’s the loudest and most animated I’ve seen him since that night. Since we killed the Mage.

We killed the Mage. I still can’t quite believe it. I hated him. I hated him from before I realised I had a real, genuine reason to hate him. Then I helped kill him. I still don’t know what to do with that. None of us do, least of all Simon. At least I’d spent my entire life mentally preparing for the Mage’s death.

“You have to finish,” Simon says quietly. He won’t look at me, he’s staring off into the distance. “Your mother would want you to finish.”

That’s the nail in my coffin, as it were. My mother. It’s how he always wins this damn argument, because I can’t fight back against the overwhelming legacy of Natasha Grimm-Pitch. He’s right. Of all the ways I’m a disappointment to her, I refuse to let dropping out of Watford be one of them. I can't control being queer. I can't control being a vampire. But the things that _are_ in my control? I’ll bloody well control them. Avenging her murder? Finishing my education? Done.

“It’s late,” Simon whispers. “You should have left hours ago.”

“I know, but—” I let my words hang in the air, unsure of how I would have finished my own sentence.

_But, I love you._   
_But, you’re worth it._   
_But, I don’t want to go, don’t make me go, please Simon please please please please just let me stay here, wrapped around you, holding you, until our bodies fuse together into an incorporeal mass and we can exist together forever as one._

“You should go,” he says.

I kiss the top of his head, his temple, his cheek. He makes no effort to kiss me back, so I stop there. Even in my fervent adoration I have my limits, and I can’t bring myself to kiss his mouth when he’s like this. Non-responsive.

He follows me to the front door. Bunce hears us moving on the stairs and comes out of her room. She follows along behind, at a distance. She lingers in doorways, giving us space, but always watching. I can’t tell if she’s being protective or policing.

Simon’s still holding my hand. He hasn’t let go. He’s tethering me to the world. Or I’m tethering him.

I open the front door. Simon tugs at my hand, it’s the smallest, tiniest gesture. Barely a hint of a whisper of a movement, but I can sense it. And I wring from it all the meaning I can. I wrap my arms around him and squeeze, and he lets me. I hold him for seconds, or minutes, or years. I can’t rightly tell anymore.

He’s the first to let go. He always is.

“Call me if you need me. Bunce has my number. I can be back here in a couple hours. Less if I speed.” He nods. He’s staring at my collar. He still doesn’t have a phone. I need to get him a phone.

“Bunce?” I call. She’s standing against the far wall, but at the sound of my voice she comes crashing across the room and slams into me with all the force I wish I could get from Simon. She wraps her soft, warm arms tightly around my waist and squeezes. It hurts. It feels good. I squeeze her back and lean down to rest my head against her messy hair. I breathe. She smells of chocolate, and salty tears, and sage. I hold her, rocking her gently back and forth, eyes closed, and then I feel Simon’s gentle touch. His hand on my arm. I look up into his eyes, and he’s there _. He’s there_. It's actually _him_ looking back at me from behind his brilliant blue eyes, instead of whatever ghost I’ve been interacting with for the past week. There’s brightness and fire and warmth there. Alive alive alive. _Simon_.

I breathe his name. I say it like a prayer.

Penny looks up, and when she sees Simon, _alive alive alive Simon,_ she wraps her arms around us both and then we’re all hugging. I feel my shirt dampen with Penny’s tears. Simon rubs his face against my neck. He kisses me. I kiss into Simon’s hair and across his face and run my arms along both their backs, pulling them tight, tight, tighter, with too much force. We’re bonded now. We’re a unit, the three of us. For better or worse. Now it’s us against the world.

Eventually we let go. We extract limbs from limbs and straighten our clothes. We put the masks back on.

“Call me when you get in, yeah? Let me know the moment you’re back,” Penny says. “You have my mobile number, right?”

“I do. I will.”

I pass through the door. Simon takes a halting step towards me, but we both know he can’t pass through. They’ve spelled it with magic so he’s bound here. He can’t so much as walk me to my car.

“Call me,” Penny says again. She slides her arm around Simon. She’s signalling me that she's tagging in. She’s on duty now.

Simon smiles an awkward little half-smile at me, and then the light behind his eyes flickers out. I wave once, but I don’t think he sees. I walk to my car.

I’m halfway up the M1 when I realise I’ll be alone tonight. Completely alone.

I let myself cry. I don’t wipe the tears away. I let them fall and dampen my shirt and combine with Bunce’s tears, and Simon’s. The salt of us mingles and melds in the fibres of my shirt.

I pull into a spot in the teacher’s lot. Mitali Bunce has kindly allowed me to bring my car to Watford, not that she had much choice. She understood saying no would be a losing battle.

The stairs to the top of Mummer’s Tower have never felt so numerous or steep. I’m exhausted by the time I reach the top. _I’m exhausted._

I take a deep breath. I open the door.

Everything and nothing have changed. The room smells the same. Cedar, bergamot, sweat, and smoke. My bed is made. Simon’s isn’t. My desk is covered with the trappings of school. Simon’s isn’t.

I strip off my clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor. I pull on my pyjamas and sit on the edge of my bed. I lay down. I spell out the lights.

It’s deathly silent. Deathly like a tomb. Deathly like a coffin. Suddenly I’m back in the coffin in that Numpty den and I’m kicking off the covers and spelling on the lights, even the ones in the ensuite and I’m breathing hard and oh Crowley, is this what a panic attack feels like?

I clutch my pillow to my chest and breath hard, in and out. In and out. I smash my face down into the pillow and notice one of Simon’s bronze hairs shining there. The last time we were in this room we slept together in my bed. And that’s all we did. Slept. Held one another. We barely even kissed. The trauma of what’d happened was too fresh. It still is. I wonder how long it’ll take us to recover? Simon’s always been so tough, so strong. He’s always been able to handle the unreasonable amounts of bullshit life has thrown him. He’ll be fine soon enough. It’s Penny I worry about.

Shit. Penny. I told her I’d call when I got in. I grab my phone from the nightstand and ring her number.

“Hello?” A groggy voice on the other end answers, it is distinctly _not_ Penny.

“Simon?” My voice comes out choked. I wasn’t prepared to hear his voice. I wasn’t ready. I always need to steel myself for him, harden my spine and heart for every interaction, so I can be strong. This time I wasn’t ready. I feel my eyes prickle and I fight back tears.

“Yeah,” he says, voice still thick with sleep. “Penny left her phone with me. Said that was her plan all along. She was plotting, Baz. Can you believe it? That's supposed to be your thing.”

I laugh, and it’s a terrible snorting gag of a thing. I feel a bit hysterical. He’s said more words to me in the past minute than he has all week.

“That was nice of Bunce. To plot like that. I must thank her the next time I see her.”

“Which will be soon?”

“I’d drive back right now, if only you’d ask me.”

Simon laughs, it’s a quiet laugh, but it’s still a laugh. He’s so open right now. I don’t know what’s making the difference. Is it the fact he doesn’t have to see me? (I don't like that idea.) Is it the distance? (I don't like that idea either.) Is he so sleepy he’s delirious? Whatever it is I’ll take it. My cold heart is grasping at straws.

“Simon,” I whisper.

“Baz,” he whispers back.

I stand. I start to cross the room, possessed with the sudden need to be in his bed. Instead I walk to the wardrobe and open the door. One of his school jackets still hangs inside. I put my hand on the soft green wool, let my fingers trace down along the piping. Then, I yank it from its hanger and take it with me as I drag my body into his bed.

The smell of him is overwhelming. I nearly choke on it. I keep the phone to my ear and rub my face into his pillow.

“What are you doing?” he asks softly.

“Getting into bed. Your bed.”

“Oh.”

“Is that alright?”

“Yes,” he says breathily. It’s quiet. “Yes. I like knowing where you are.”

I don’t tell him I have his school blazer in my arms, that I’m hugging it to me beneath the covers, sniffing in the sweat and musk of him that lingers there. I run my face back and forth between the collar of his jacket and his pillow.

“I miss you,” I say into his pillow, into his blazer, into the phone.

“I miss you too.”

“I can let you go. Let you get back to sleep, Simon.”

"No," he says forcefully. "No. Stay with me. Like this." 

I hum my assent and rub my face along the collar of his blazer again.

“I’m not much of a conversationalist these days, Baz. Sorry.” He laughs at himself. It’s a soft, quiet sound. If he were here now I’d kiss him. I’d put two fingers on his jaw and turn his face towards mine and I’d kiss him. I’d kiss him to show him I love him. I'd kiss him to thank him for saving me. For saving us. For saving the whole worthless world. I’d kiss him because I lack the proper words. And I’d kiss him because I’ve always wanted to lay in Simon Snow's bed and kiss him.

“It's alright, Simon. We don’t have to speak. I’m happy to lay here and listen to you breathe.”

He takes a deep breath. I don’t know if it’s because he thinks I couldn’t hear him breathing (I can) or because he’s not sure what to say (I’m not).

We stay like this for a long while, breathing, existing, alone and together. His breathing slows, he’s going to fall asleep soon. I can tell. I know him.

“Simon, love, would you do something for me?”

“Hmm?”

“Lay the phone down on your chest. Leave it there as you drift off.”

“Why?”

“So I can fall asleep listening to the beating of your heart.”

He takes a couple deep breaths. Perhaps that was too much. Perhaps I am, as always, _too much_.

“Of course, Baz I— Goodnight, Baz," he says finally, quietly.

“Goodnight, Simon. Sleep well.”

"Sleep well."

I hear him fumble with the phone, before it goes quiet. I focus my senses and then he’s there beside me, around me, in me. His scent fills my lungs, the scratch of his school blazer is under my fingertips, and the soft percussion of his heart fills my ears, my chest, my everything.

I don’t care if he has his phone on speaker, I don’t care if he can hear me or not. I don't care that it's too much and that it's too soon. I whisper into the night.

“I love you, Simon.”

I fall asleep alone, with Simon.


End file.
